“Hold her up!”
“I think she’s fainted.”
No, I haven’t, said Lancey silently, but she wasn’t going to argue about it. Von Beck was roaring for his help, his wife, giving commands. The girl felt herself lifted, but kept her eyes closed. It would be, she decided, a lot less trouble to be carried than to try to walk.
Swathed in a blanket, feet soaking in a tub of steaming water, Lancey Quist smiled drowsily at the flames in the bed-chamber fireplace. She was warm, delightfully warm; her skin still tingled from the brisk toweling that had rubbed her dry.
Behind her Mistress von Beck muttered in Swedish as she gathered up Lancey’s discarded clothes. If the innkeeper’s wife spoke English it was a well-kept secret in the town. She and her daughter had tended the shivering girl with brusque efficiency, making no mention of recognition.
Lancey sighed. It was pleasant to be coddled for a change, handled like a baby. Still she was glad that the older woman had sent the younger out before her shift was peeled off. Modesty worried Lancey little, but the shift was old and much mended.
For the first time the girl examined the room. It wasn’t, she guessed, one of the best front chambers for all its fireplace. The big four-poster bed filled a good half the space, and there was a single window, shuttered now against the night. A wash stand and the stool Lancey sat on were the only other furnishings, but the oval rag rug, though worn, was clean and the floor was scrubbed spotless.
Second best anyway, thought Lancey. What with three candles lit and the fire it was very cozy. Of course she didn’t intend to stay any longer than it took for her clothes to dry.
The von Beck daughter came back, spoke to her mother, clumped toward Lancey. She held out a leather mug.
“Here’s a posset. Ma said you was to drink.”
Mistress von Beck nodded vigorously.
“Thank you,” said Lancey. She sipped the hot milk, amply laced with spiced wine. Its tang was as new to her tongue as its fumes were to her nostrils, but she savored both. The liquid ran warmly down her throat, spread inside her, and she licked her lips.
“It’s very good.”
Mistress von Beck dimpled, smiling. She held out the wadded bundle of clothing, said something, and departed.
“Ma,” said the daughter when the door had closed, “will dry your things in front of the big kitchen fireplace.” Her voice had no accent, but a whine had replaced it. “You’re Lancey Quist, ain’t you?”
As you well know, thought Lancey, watching the other over the rim of the mug. They had haggled about the price of fish several times. Hilda von Beck, except for hair that was dirty blonde instead of polished pewter, was a physical copy of her mother, square and thick-set, with a big bosom and wide hips. Even the chubby pink faces were alike, but Mistress von Beck’s was pleasant with dimples, this mouth was pinched.
“That’s right,” Lancey said.
“The fishmonger.”
“That’s right, too.” Lancey wriggled her toes in the water, and drank. She refused to be baited.
“How’d you ever fall in with young Master van Zandt?”
“He fell in. I helped him get out.”
“I’ve heard all that.” A sniff dismissed the tale. “But what was you doing with him in the first place?”
“I just chanced to be there.” Lancey hid her glee behind the mug. She knew jealousy when she saw it. And from an old spinster of twenty-five at least!
“He’s stayed here before. He’s a van Zandt, you know.”
“So you said.”
“Beekman van Zandt’s younger. There’s two. They live up by Rhinebeck. You’d better be careful.”
“Careful? Of what?” Lancey’s surprise was genuine.
“Just be careful,” said the other girl, darkly, “that’s all!” She flounced from the room, slamming the door.
Lancey stared after her, shrugged. She leaned forward to consider her feet, thought them too red, took them from the water. As she finished the posset, toasting her toes dry, she considered the conversation. The van Zandts must be rich, patroon Dutchy, one of the gentry families that had sided with the colony in the war. She giggled at the idea of Dirck van Zandt courting that Hilda.
The heat, the drink, the relaxing warmth after cold exertion made her sleepy. She padded over to the bed, stretched out on its featherbed softness gratefully. There was no reason why she couldn’t be comfortable while she waited. If the von Becks objected Dirck van Zandt could pay the score.
“He’d gladly pay for his blasted mare,” she said, aloud. It was a barely audible murmur, and she fell asleep with her next breath.
Dirck van Zandt roused her when he entered with the innkeeper. She hadn’t heard his knock, but the opening door startled her.
Lancey sat up, wide-eyed. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, and she snatched at it. Her tumbled black mass of hair, the patina of sleep on her face, made her look very young. One leg was bared to the knee, and she hastily tucked it under her.
“Feeling better?” asked Dirck, grinning at her. Lud, he thought, she is a fetching little minx, disheveled like that! The realization came suddenly and unsummoned. He had not ordered the supper on the innkeeper’s tray from any motive except hunger. Now, he began to have a different idea entirely.
“Much better, thank you.” Lancey tried to sound composed, but her gaze was on the dishes not the man. “What’s this?”
“Food,” said von Beck.
“Thought you might be hungry,” said Dirck. He set down the small table he was carrying. “I’m famished.” As the innkeeper uncovered dishes, Dirck watched Lancey.
She counted viands in open-mouthed awe. There was enough for a feast! A roast fowl, a rib of beef, boiled potatoes, mashed turnips, pie, bread, gravy, a bottle of wine! Her mouth watered, and her stomach felt weak.
“Yes,” said Lancey, “I think I can eat.” She was wondering where to begin. The meals in the Quist household were filling and plentiful, but of no such variety.
“Anything else?” asked von Beck.
“Not now, mine host.” Dirck waved the innkeeper away. The big man’s size dwarfed Dirck’s medium height, made the gesture slightly ridiculous, a trifle over-lordly.
The motion caught Lancey’s eye, and, as von Beck bowed out, she regarded the man she’d rescued. His fresh clothes, his own from the fit, made her very conscious of her nakedness under the blanket. He was wearing a crisp, ruffled shirt, buff breeches, and white stockings. Soft leather slippers bad replaced his boots, and the straw blonde hair was combed. She noted the black bow of his queue as he bent to pour the wine.
“I hope you like claret,” Dirck said.
That, too, sounded false to Lancey. It was spoken a shade too gravely, and mocked instantly by the bright glance of his blue eyes. He wasn’t sure she’d ever tasted claret. Prickles that were not caused by the coarse wool of the blanket ran down Lancey’s spine.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“It’s the best in the house.” As Dirck moved around the table to hand her a glass, he casually pushed the door out of his way. The gentle shove left hardly a crack ajar.
Face impassive, Lancey accepted the drink. Her calm politeness mocked him. The moves were as easily followed as a beginner at draughts. Quite the rakehell, this lad, she thought.
“I can’t eat like this,” Lancey said.
“My dear, you look charming.” Dirck raised his glass. “Let us drink to our mutual safety.”
“Safety?”
“Yes. We’re snug here, dry and warm.”
Lancey tasted the claret, drank a good swallow. She was enjoying herself, excited and amused by the pleasant voice. Knowing gin and rum the girl considered the wine a mild beverage not to be feared.
“You’re clothed, too, Master van Zandt.”
“I keep a few things here. Luckily.”
“You live here?”
“No, but I stay overnight occasionally. Now, we mustn’t let the food get cold.”
She watched him draw the stool to the table, pick up the carving knife. Smiling, he proceeded to carve the meat with neat dexterity. Lancey returned the smile. She fully intended to sup well, however things developed.
He’s tumbled a wench or three in his time, Lancey decided, and willingly enough, perchance. It wasn’t hard for the patroon’s son to coax a tenant girl behind a hay-mow. Why, the generous gentleman was even going to feed the riverfront waif before he took her to bed.
“Enough?”
The plate was piled high. With a nod, Lancey wrapped the blanket tightly, snug under her armpits, and tucked in the ends, before she reached. He could look at her bare shoulders if he wished. He did.
Dirck found the girl’s manner of eating almost as fascinating. She stripped a drumstick with quick slashes of white, even teeth between spoonfuls of vegetables. She was starved, he thought with pity. Then, he gazed again at the round shoulders and poured more wine.
“Thank you, Master van Zandt.”
“Dirck.”
“Umm?”
“My friends call me Dirck.”
“Oh.”
He frowned with suspicion. She was busy eating, tearing at a slice of bread, not looking at him. Well, she was probably shy, out of her depth in these surroundings. She couldn’t have meant to parry his friendly suggestion.
Your move, Lancey thought, and wondered what tack he’d try this time. She hoped they’d at least finish the meal before he tried anything. The food was very good. She gulped more wine to encourage him.
“I know your name. It’s Lancey Quist.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re a fishmonger.”
“My father’s a fisherman. We do sell them, of course.”
“And you live here in Poughkeepsie.”
“No.”
“No?”
“We live on the riverfront. The town’s on the bluff.”
“Oh, I see. You’re down by the landing.”
“South of it.” Lancey spoke with her mouth full, trying to keep the conversation going. As long as she could keep him talking there was no need to worry. “We’ll be very busy now that the river’s open. We’ll have to mend the nets, fix up our boat. My father’s the best fisherman on the river.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“He is.” And his daughter, Lancey told herself, has grown up among boys who could swallow this popinjay with one bite. They were more abrupt about trying to raise a petticoat, but no more successful with hers. The few who had pinched her bottom long wore the marks of her nails.
“There was a Quist,” said Dirck, twirling his glass, “used to peddle fish to the army around Newburgh when I was there. Short, stocky man.”
The remark made Lancey stop eating to stare. “That would be Pa. You were with the army? The Continentals?”
Dirck flushed, nodded. “Only toward the end. I didn’t see any fighting, worse luck. I’m no hero. Didn’t even get in until after Cornwallis gave up.”
“Course not.” Lancey laughed at him, pleased at his discomfort. “Six years back you were a baby.”
“Not so young as all that.”
“Close enough.”
“I’m twenty-three!”
“Oh,” said Lancey, deliberately sweet, “you don’t look it.” Scowling, Dirck ate in silence. Somehow, and he couldn’t figure why exactly, the conversation had gotten out of his control. The girl couldn’t have done it. She was years younger than he was! He was trying to think of a remark, bantering but suggestive, that would get them back on the proper footing, when Lancey spoke.
“Times were good when the army was just downriver.”
“Good for tradesmen. Dull for us.”
“I often went there with Pa.”
“In his arms?”
“Not so young as all that,” said Lancey, laughing. Dirck laughed with her, pleased at his own question, delighted at her reply. They shared the joke, a glance, and a moment.
She can’t be more than sixteen now, he judged. He glanced at the litter of empty plates, reached for the bottle. “Your glass is empty.”
Lancey held it out, startled at her willingness. I will have to watch this one, she thought. He can be likeable, and, after all, I’m only clad in a blanket. A little more friendly laughter might prove my undoing.
“Did you ever see Washington?” she asked, interested.
“Often.”
“I saw him three times. Close, that is. A big man, with a stern mouth. Like—like a figurehead for a ship. He made me think of that. On a horse he looked a giant.”
“You were small. But the general’s big all right. Do you remember the party he gave for the Frenchies?”
“With the fireworks?”
“You do remember.”
“Of course!” Lancey, leaning forward, was flushed and animated. In her interest she forgot to be cautious. The army encampments had thrilled her as a child; the fireworks occasion had been memorable.
A tempting morsel, Dirck thought, with the wine bringing color to her cheeks, sparkle to her eyes. He was very sure of his conquest, but didn’t wish to be hasty.
“Did you,” asked Lancey, “ride into New York with the army?”
“Yes. Now, there was a party!”
“Oh, I wish I’d seen it!”
“We came in one end of the town as the British shipped out the other. As soon as we reached the houses, everybody poured out on the streets, lining the road. Flags, cheers, tears even. Maybe some of them were Tories, but they didn’t show it that day. I felt a little like crying myself, and I was way toward the rear of the column. Up front with Washington and Clinton it must have been like—like Jesus on Palm Sunday.”
He spoke with no irreverence. Seduction was forgotten, and he gazed past the girl as he looked into his memory. His voice was low; his tone vibrant.
Lancey liked him, liked his speech. Her own voice was pitched to match his.
“And bands? Music?”
“The fifes trilling, and the drums rattling. But the music wasn’t what moved you.” Dirck stared into his glass, sipped as if toasting the memory. “It was those ragged soldiers that had fought them so long, and beaten them, marching in first, with their heads up and their eyes shining, in step for once!”
Lancey nodded, moved by the description. She remembered the camps near the river, the weary, slovenly men who waited impatiently for the end of a war that was really over and done.
“They were taking back,” said Dirck, “a place that they’d lost years before. A place the British had held, and used, and owned. The last big town! Our own port at the mouth of our river!”
“Our own port,” said Lancey, eyes shining. “Our river.” This was a language she understood, saying what riverfront folk thought, but couldn’t express. She felt very close to this young man from Rhinebeck.
Her repetition stirred Dirck uncomfortably. He was embarrassed by his emotional talk. One glance at the girl, the parted lips, the look on her face, rekindled his desire. Maybe, without trying, he had touched the proper spring. She was as ripe and ready as a pink-gold pear!
“The Hudson open again,” said Lancey, not noticing his glance, “all the way!”
Dirck rose to replenish the fire, thinking. The length of the candles told him the hour was late. Listening, he could hear no sound from the rest of the inn. They might all be abed, or just quiet, but von Beck would honor the privacy of a purse-full guest. When he returned from the fireplace, he picked up his glass, sat on the edge of the bed.
Lancey stiffened, then relaxed. His eyes were very blue, and he was smiling. With mild surprise she found herself more excited than wary. That wine, she thought, was stronger than it tasted.
“Let us drink,” said Dirck, raising his glass, “a toast to that day and that army.”
Well, Lancey decided, there’s no harm in that.
The glasses clinked as they touched. They drank.
Gently, Dirck took both glasses, placed them on t
he table. One arm curved around the girl’s shoulders; the fingers of his other hand raised her chin.
He has nice hands, Lancey thought, strong but gentle.
“You’re a lovely nymph, Lancey Quist.”
The whisper puzzled her. She recognized a compliment, but didn’t know the word.
“What’s a—a nymph?”
“You are. A wood sprite, all grace and beauty.”
He was bending close, bending for a kiss. Amazingly, she wanted to kiss him. Behind her something plucked at the edge of the blanket. She held one arm tightly across her breast to keep it in place.
“Sprite?”
“Yes.”
Their lips met in a long, breathless kiss. Lancey’s head swam with a sweet, new giddiness. She had been seldom kissed, never like this. She enjoyed it so much she forgot to be careful of the blanket. It slipped down, fell to her waist.
That warned her. So this is how it happens, she thought. The pleasure mulls the wine in the very pit of one’s stomach, sends it, heated and coursing, back up through the body like a fever. She felt very strange, and hot, and worried.
Thoroughly enjoying himself, Dirck wasn’t worried. Everything was progressing as it should. The hazel eyes were very close when he raised his head. They looked large and luminous.
“Lancey.”
He fairly purred the name. His palm caressed her shoulder, dropped lower to fondle her breast as he drew her closer for another kiss. Dirck was delighted with the whole situation, the soft mouth, the fallen blanket, her smooth, pliant form, her eager response. He kissed her with skillful ardor. In a moment he would ease her back on the bed, and they’d be more comfortable.
Oh, my, Lancey thought, in a moment I’ll be all undone! I like this too much! Much too much! The kissing, the touching! He has me beside myself, an easy conquest.
With great effort, she reached out a leg, found the table, pushed. It went over with a tremendous crash of glassware and dishes!
The noise shook the room. Dirck, startled, jumped, relaxing his embrace. On the instant the girl was out of his arms, across the room. She had the blanket firmly back around her, and stood poised on the threshold.
Shad Run Page 3
